


Into the Game Again

by TheEagleGirl



Series: Westeros AU [3]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: But kind of not the best parenting move here, Cersei Lannister is an only child, F/M, Mentions of miscarriage, Tywin Lannister's A+ Parenting, What-If
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-28
Updated: 2016-09-28
Packaged: 2018-08-18 06:54:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8153017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheEagleGirl/pseuds/TheEagleGirl
Summary: In which Cersei realizes the game demands to be played.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Ahh, a continuation of one of my favorite AUs to delve into! If you haven't read the previous installations, you probably should. 
> 
> In this, there are some changes:
> 
> Jorah Mormont doesn't become a slaver. He brings his wife to Winterfell, where she becomes one of Cersei's ladies.  
> Maege Mormont cameos here bc she's amazing and underappreciated.  
> Catelyn married Robert.  
> Robb, Joanna and Jon are 10  
> Arya is 7  
> Bran and Myrcella (twins) are 4
> 
> So, this visit to Winterfell happens a few years earlier than the visit in canon bc REASONS. Seriously, though, I do believe that Catelyn, unlike Cersei, would advocate for good relations between the North and the South, and possibly push her husband to visit before Jon Arryn's death.
> 
> There is a...difference in opinions between Cersei and Tywin here, as well as Cersei feeling out the queen's personality.

They say the queen in beautiful.

_Beautiful and dutiful_ , words that circle round in Cersei’s head. It’s the dutiful part that troubles her most. The royal party will be arriving soon, to come celebrate the princess’s seventh nameday. She can see that the notion makes Theon Greyjoy, an addition to the Stark household made through war, sick to his stomach. The boy is nearing five and ten, but when he’d heard King Robert was coming to Winterfell, he’d blanched, face white.

_Catelyn Tully,_ Cersei muses. In her youthful rage, when Cersei had believed that Ned would marry a Tully bride, she’d convinced herself that she _hated_ Catelyn Tully—Baratheon, now. Now, the queen. Back then, though, she’d imagined her beauty, her red hair, how it always seemed that she’d been given a freedom Cersei never had. Traders had spoken to her father about the Lord of Riverrun and his children, and it always seemed like Catelyn Tully was learning something wild and new, playing in the gardens with the ward—delightfully scandalous—and swimming in Riverrun’s great moat carelessly, while duels were being fought over her. All the while, Cersei had been schooled in the dark rooms of Casterly Rock.

_Stitches smaller, Cersei,_ she can practically hear. _Sit straighter, Cersei. Act like the lady you are._

Cersei admits, she’d been jealous. But she’d also been blessed. While Catelyn Tully was playing with boys, she’d been learning politics at her father’s knee.

So when the advance party she’d sent out to greet the king sends a scout back with word of their coming arrival, Cersei takes a moment to regard what kind of woman Catelyn Baratheon will be.

_Cautious,_ she decides. _Easily offended. Beautiful. Dutiful._

It is the dutiful part that worries her. People interpret duty very differently, in Cersei’s experience.

“Thank you,” she tells Jory, who has come to tell her the king will arrive within the day. “I will find my Lord Husband. Get my children in order, if you would. And Jon Snow and Theon Greyjoy as well. They shall await my instructions, and stand behind our line to greet the king. Tell Septa Mordane to make sure Arya wears a _nice_ gown, will you?”

“Yes, Lady Stark,” Jory answers, and nods respectfully before he scurries off to complete his duties.

Cersei sets aside the accounts she’d been looking at—the numbers were making her eyes cross after staring at them so long—and stands, dismissing Lady Maege and Lady Lynesse so they could prepare for the king’s arrival.

She finds her husband beneath the Heart Tree, staring deeply into the hot pools.

“Ned,” she calls, and he turns, a grim look on his face that softens when he takes her in, holding her dress higher than is strictly ladylike to keep the mud and leaves off the hem. She lets an inviting smile grace her face. After eleven years of marriage, that look on his face still leaves her breathless.

“Ned,” she implores, her voice softer. “Quit your piety for a moment—the king is nearly here, and you must help me marshal the children through the greeting ceremony.”

“Is he?” Ned asks, but makes no move away from the tree. His eyes move back to the Heart Tree a moment, and then he starts to make his way over the roots and to her. Cersei drops the dress on one side and holds out her hand expectantly. He takes it, and kisses it.

“Dealing with Arya shall be a disaster today, my love,” Cersei tells him. “Joanna and Myrcella, less so. I was thinking of talking to Jon, asking him to keep Arya out of trouble for the night.”

“He wouldn’t mind,” Ned assures her, and tucks her hand into his elbow, leads her away from the tree with the bleeding eyes. “Robb and Bran will be well behaved as well. I spoke to the two of them last night.”

“And Theon?” Cersei asks, keeping her eyes straight ahead. “The boy will be drunk tonight, if he can help it. His judgement will be…skewed,” she finishes, settling on the right word at last.

Ned takes a breath, “I know,” he says. “Robb will keep an eye on him tonight.”

“Robb is _ten_ ,” Cersei reminds her husband. “It is Jory I want with Theon tonight.”

“Jory will be at the lower tables. It is not fit that he sit with the royal family,” Ned protests.

“So seat Theon at the lower table,” Cersei says, “It’s not ideal, and he will take it as a slight, but it is better than his drunken insults to the king all night. Robert has no patience for inebriated children with tempers, as I seem to remember.”

Ned laughs. “Or patience for anything,” he adds, sounding fond. Cersei smiles tightly. She cannot share in her husband’s love of Robert Baratheon. “All right,” Ned concedes. “He will sit right below the dais, and we will move Jory up a bit.”

“I’d like to sit with my father for a bit tonight, after the feast is done,” Cersei says, once they have cleared the weirwood and she can lower her skirts. “I will only keep him in my solar for an hour or so.”

Ned’s eyes burn into hers as he kisses her hand again. “If you’d like, I shall come to your rooms after then.”

Cersei lifts her hand to Ned’s cheek and kisses him lightly on the mouth, “Do.”

 

* * *

 

Bran and Myrcella do not fidget when they await the royal party, as Cersei had feared they would. The twins simply hold hands and whisper to one another when they are not sucking at their thumbs. Joanna and Robb twist excitedly to turn to Jon Snow behind them, or Theon when the boy forgets himself long enough to stop sulking for a minute. It is Arya who is impatient, and Arya who is scowling at the gray stone below their feet.

“She’s upset because she’s been forced into a dress,” Lady Maege whispers from behind Cersei.

“Yes,” Cersei replies, without turning. “But she is a daughter of House Stark, and should comport herself as so.”

Arya hears her, and her scowl deepens, until Jon Snow maneuvers around to whisper something in her ear. Her daughter breaks into startled laughter, and claps a hand over her mouth to stifle it. The boy grins at Arya, and Cersei meets his eye as he moves back in place. He nods respectfully, already lowering his eyes.

“No more breaking the line,” Ned warns the children. “I see the King’s banners.”

And so does Cersei. The banners are dark against the Northern hills.

Her children snap to attention, even Arya, and Cersei keeps her eyes trained ahead.

When Robert Baratheon rides into the gates of Winterfell, Cersei has to fight to keep her composure.

To be fair, Cersei had seen him last nearly nine years ago, when he’d been devastated about the Lady Lyanna’s death, and barely eating. He’d been fit and strong though, muscled like a maiden’s fantasy, thickly bearded and his blue eyes clouded with sadness. He is no longer muscled like a maiden’s fantasy, she acknowledges, and on his way to fat. His middle is thicker, and his chest is bigger. When he dismounts, Cersei thinks she’s been a bit unkind—he’s not _fat_ yet, but there’s a lordly give to him, whereas Ned has stayed lean and strong. From what Ned’s told her, though, not five years ago during the Greyjoy rebellion Robert was swinging his war hammer with more strength than five grown men.

Dismounting besides him is a boy of eight who could only be his son, the crown prince Steffon. The boy has his look, and is grinning from ear to ear.

The household drops to its knees, and Ned murmurs, “Your Grace, Winterfell is yours—”

“Ned!” The king roars, watching the courtyard kneel. “Up, up, you old fool. It’s been too long!”

He marches over to Ned and embraces him so fiercely that Ned looks to lose his footing for a moment. Cersei can hear a startled laugh escape her husband’s mouth.

“Winterfell is yours,” Ned repeats, still laughing, as the wheelhouse opens its gates and the queen emerges.

She is beautiful, Cersei will admit, although if she’s being truthful, Catelyn Tully is certainly not more beautiful than _her_. Her hair is done up elaborately, the curls and braids circling her gold crown more of a deep auburn than the fiery red Cersei has pictured. Her hips have widened from the birth of her three children, while Cersei’s have remained slim, and her neck is long and elegant. However, there is a closed look to her face while she descends the wheelhouse that makes Cersei think this queen of theirs is a cold woman, or at least a very unhappy one.

“Jocelyn,” the queen calls into the wheelhouse. “Orys. Come on out.”

Suddenly, Cersei’s view of the queen is obstructed, because Robert Baratheon has come in front of _her_ now. “Ah, Cersei,” the King says. “It’s been too long as well since I’ve set eyes on your beauty. Such a shame, to keep you locked up so far in the North. Ned, you do your wife a disservice!”

“I do not complain, Your Grace,” Cersei tells the king. “I find that Winterfell suits me, as do the rest of my husband’s lands.”

Robert laughs and embraces her as well. Cersei thinks it is a bit presumptuous, to hug the wife of your oldest friend, a woman you barely know. She does remember, however, the last time she’d spoken to Robert Baratheon, the young man who’d lost his bride-to-be. She’d been kind to him then, and listened alongside Ned as he’d sobbed into his wine. She supposes that’s why he believes he can embrace her, although it is too familiar for her tastes.

He pulls away, “The North does suit you, it seems,” he tells her. “You’re dressed like a Northwoman!”

Her hair is loose, he means. Her dress is red samite, with an edging of gold, and a dove-grey fur cloak, similar to what she would have worn back in Casterly Rock. She would never have gone with her hair loose before, but she finds that if she brushes it out enough, it shines like spun gold and catches the eye of everyone in a room. “We do not have much Southron fashion on display here, Your Grace,” Cersei says, amused. “And winter is coming.”

“May I present my children?” Ned asks. Robert turns to him, and Cersei turns back to the queen.

Catelyn Baratheon wears her husband’s colors. The black and gold gown is cut modestly, and looks expensive. Jocelyn and Orys stand behind her.

“This is Robb,” Ned is saying. “And this is Joanna.”

“Twins, yes?” Robert interjects. “I held you two when you were but children. How old are you, boy?”

“Ten!” Robb says, beaming.

Robert laughs, and tells Joanna she’s going to be a beauty like her mother one day. To Arya, who Ned had no doubt written about, Robert asks to feel her muscles. To Bran and Myrcella he ruffles their hair, and tells them they will play much with little Orys.

_He’s good with children_ , Cersei notes.

“This is my wife and queen, Catelyn,” Robert says, finally. “I believe you know her, Ned.”

Ned bows deeply. “Welcome to Winterfell, Your Grace.”

Cersei curtseys. “Welcome to Winterfell,” she echoes.

Suddenly, Robert’s face sobers. “Take me to your crypts, Ned,” he says, his voice booming through the courtyard. “I would pay my respects.”

Queen Catelyn’s face is expressionless while she rearranges it to look pleased. Ned shoots Cersei a look. “Of course, Your Grace,” he replies. “This way.”

The courtyard is silent after his retreat, and then Cersei nods to Jory, who begins to shout orders to the servants, ushering the children inside and getting the royal party situated. Cersei approaches the Queen alone.

“My Queen,” Cersei hears herself begin. “I’ve prepared a suite of rooms for you and your family. Would you like me to take you to them, so you may rest after such a long journey? Perhaps a bath? Before the feast, of course.”

“The feast,” the Queen repeats, tone flat. “Of course,” she says, tearing her eyes from her husband’s retreating figure. “That sounds wonderful. Do you have hot water prepared?”

Cersei nods, and ushers the princes and princess ahead, “Yes. We have hot springs that run through the walls of Winterfell, and keep the castle heated during the winter. During my first year as the lady here, I had the servants install a pipe system through the Great Keep. The water shall be hot and ready, at your leisure.”

Catelyn Baratheon approves, and Cersei leads her through the halls, listening to the children babbling all the while.

“I hear we may share a grandchild one day,” Catelyn tells her, and Cersei freezes.

“Is that what the king is speaking to my husband about?” Cersei asks.

“Yes,” the queen replies, not looking at her. _She does not want this_ , Cersei realizes. _Why?_ The match is beneficial. Northern lords scarcely marry into the South, and Robert cannot hold his ties to the North on friendship alone. It makes _sense_ to marry one of the princes to a daughter of Winterfell, for political security.

“Well,” Cersei finally says, and nods to the guards, who open the doors to the royal suite. “This is the first I hear of it. These are your rooms, Your Grace. Will that be all?”

Catelyn turns her head to regard Cersei. Her blue eyes are dark in the shadows of the hall. “Yes. You may leave us, please.”

_Beautiful,_ Cersei decides, walking away from the queen. _Dutiful. Quick to sense slights, imagined or not._

_Unhappy._

 

* * *

 

Joanna and Myrcella have Cersei’s look. Arya does not. Cersei does not delude herself to the fact that Arya is angry that she is not as pretty as her sisters. Once, when Arya had been five, Cersei heard her ask eight year old Jon Snow if she was a bastard too, since she looked like him. It had hurt Cersei to just sit there and not come in to hold her child to her and soothe her. Jon Snow had done that admirably instead, smoothing Arya’s tangled hair and wiping her snotty nose.

“You’re beautiful,” he’d told her with all the grace of an eight year old, after assuring Arya that she was, in fact, a trueborn Stark. “Myrcella and Joanna are pretty, and they always will be, but you’re going to be so beautiful men will fight for your favors.”

The notion had impressed Arya—not the promise of beauty, per se, but the promise of fights in her name.

Arya is seven now, and her lust for violence never ceases to astound Cersei. Nor does her affection for Jon Snow.

“Why would you bite Theon?” Cersei finally asks, breaking the silence. Theon is cradling his forearm, his face red, and Jon stands a half-step behind them both, face downcast, still and white as marble.

“He was being mean,” Arya insists stubbornly. “He’s just angry that the King’s here, and now he’s being _awful_ , Mother. He told Jon his mother was a pox-ridden _whore_!”

Jon has always been one of Theon’s victims, unfortunately.

Arya’s language shocks Cersei. “How does she know what a whore is?” Cersei demands, looking at the boys. “Theon. Answer me.” Theon looks away, face red.

Arya sets her chin out, “He visits them. Robb says so, when he thinks I can’t hear.”

Words cannot encompass how badly Cersei wants to strangle Theon Greyjoy at this moment. Or thrash him. Violence is needed.

She takes a breath, the space behind her eyes already throbbing. “Jon Snow’s mother was not a pox-ridden whore,” she says sharply, and looks at the three of them in turn, adding heat when it is Theon’s turn. “And if she was, which you do not know she was,” Cersei adds, “it is not your place to say so.” Her voice takes on an icy edge, “And if I _hear_ this talk of whores again, Theon…what you do with the allowance my husband and I provide is up to you, but talking to my _children_ about it is unacceptable.”

“She _bit_ me,” Theon spits out angrily. “I am the son of a great lord! _That_ is unacceptable as well! Will you not do anything about the little beast?”

Cersei turns to her daughter. “Arya,” she says coolly, and her daughter flinches back, almost turns to bury her head in Jon’s skinny chest before she catches herself and holds her ground. Arya’s glare meets hers head on. “If it were not the first day of the royal visit,” Cersei begins, “I would send you to bed without supper, with only Septa Mordane for company.” Arya’s face pales, and Cersei continues. “However, that would be improper with the King here, so I will schedule your night without supper for tomorrow. Until then, you will assist Septa Mordane with her needlework until the time of the feast.”

Arya’s face falls so quickly Cersei feels pity stirring in her. She hardens her heart against her daughter’s wounded expression and commands, “Apologize to Theon.”

“Sorry, Theon,” Arya mumbles, not sorry at all.

Cersei turns to Theon. “Apologize to Jon,” she tells him.

Theon’s expression is mutinous, but he does. “Apologies, bastard,” he snarls.

Jon Snow does not acknowledge the apology, such as it is, and Cersei admits he looks regal for his ten years, his chin held high and his face closed off. The comments hurt him. Times like this, with that strength shining through the cracks of Jon Snow, Cersei can see a bit of Rhaegar’s melancholy, and a bit of Lyanna’s stubborn stoniness.

“That was an awful apology,” Cersei berates Theon. “You next one will be better.” She shoos off Arya and dismisses Theon, leaving her with Jon.

“Are you going to cry?” Cersei asks, her voice gentler.

“No,” Jon says, and he is not lying. His jaw is set. He’s not going to cry. He’s angry. Times like this, he also reminds Cersei of a younger version of herself.

“Theon was wrong, you know,” she tells him. She can’t show Jon much affection, but she can take pride in the way he composes himself. She’s taught all her children well, and Jon Snow may not be her child, but he’s Ned’s in the ways that matter. “Your mother was not a whore. Your father loved her very much. Take comfort in that, if you will.”

Jon’s eyes shut, and his hands are shaking. So much anger, for a boy so small. “I can’t,” he says, sounding like a child for once. “He won’t even tell me her name, or if she loves me, or if she’s alive.”

Cersei sighs. He’s being a bit dramatic, in her opinion. “Many nobler bastards than you are thrown out onto the streets, Jon. Your father loves you, clothes you, and houses you. Do not expect him to speak of your mother before he is ready.”

“Am I dismissed?” Jon asks. With anyone else, this question should be seen as rude, but with Jon it sounds careful and polite. Cersei nods.

“Do not spend too much time around Theon,” she warns him. “He’s going to be in a dreadful mood for this whole visit.” The boy bows, and is gone.

“Well done,” her father says, startling Cersei. He appears from behind a stack of books, and Cersei scowls inwardly. It’s her fault though, for disciplining the children in the library. “Not many women would have the patience to school their husband’s bastards, much less _comfort_ them.”

“Not many women realize it is not the bastard’s fault for being born,” Cersei replies, making her way to her father. They embrace, and Cersei feels a wave of nostalgia. Her father has lost some hair in the ten years since her marriage, but he has not changed otherwise, and still smells of home.

“Still,” her father says, once he’s held her at arm’s length to inspect her. “Not many women would have raised a bastard.”

Cersei shrugs carelessly, aware of his eyes on her face. She’s been lying to her father since she was a girl, but it never gets easier. “Jon Snow was conceived before Ned and I were married, Father. I do not fault him much for any comforts he could have found during the war.” She laughs loosely, “Surely you did not think he came into our marriage as chaste as, well, snow. Did you?”

He _had_ been chaste as snow, Cersei recalls. They’d learned together.

Her father raises a brow, and Cersei meets his eyes. “Your aunt Genna is with me,” he says finally, dropping the issue. “And cousin Lancel. He’s squiring for King Robert.”

“I’ve heard,” Cersei says, seating herself on a bench, leaving the cushioned chair for her father.

“They say,” her father begins, lightly, “That Lord Stark rules the North, but it is Lady Stark who rules her husband.”

“Do they?” Cersei frowns. She will have to put a stop to such talk. “I remember people once telling me the same thing about you, you know.” Cersei toys with the edge of her sleeve, picking a stray thread. “That Mother ruled you. Or she at least ruled your heart.”

“She did,” Tywin says simply. “There was never another woman that was her like. Until you, of course.”

Cersei scoffs, “Of course. You never compliment me unless you need something, Father. Out with it.”

“Brandon,” Tywin states. “It’s time he came home with me.”

Cersei feels fear clutch at her heart with icy tendrils. “No.”

Her father stares her down from the chair, straight backed and regal, like a king. “Yes, Cersei. He is my heir. He will never learn to be lord of the Rock from Winterfell.”

“Bran is _four_ , Father. I believe he has some years yet,” Cersei says acidly. “You will not take my child from me.”

“By the gods, Cersei,” her father scoffs. “I won’t be _taking_ him from you. Don’t be dramatic. You can always come to see him. But as my heir, he does need to come back with me when I leave.”

“When he is older, I will gladly let him go to you,” Cersei says, lying through her teeth. Nothing about letting a child go would be glad. “But he is still young. Wait until he is twelve. You can squire him to uncle Kevan—”

“Cersei,” her father interrupts. “Right now, all of your children are being raised as Northerners. They worship the Old Gods, all five of them. They speak with Northern accents. They play Northern games, ride ponies and horses Northern style, eat Northern food and learn the Northern histories. My bannermen would never accept a Northman as their liege lord. He needs to come to the Rock, and be educated in the Seven, be taught by a Septon and Maester of my choosing. A proper Southron education befitting the Lord of the Rock.”

“You don’t even _know_ Bran, Father,” Cersei hisses. She feels close to tears, so she swallows them down. “He likes to climb, did you know that? He doesn’t like to be called Brandon, just Bran. He has nightmares at night, and sometimes comes to my chambers during a storm. He and Myrcella are inseparable.”

“So bring her to Casterly Rock as well,” her father says, waving a hand. “Cersei, you can always have more children…”

Cersei is nearly overwhelmed with the desire to slap her father in the face. The violence of the notion hits her like a wave. She reigns it in, reminding herself that she is not Arya, but it is a near thing. “So,” she says, “can you.”

Her father flinches back at that. Immediately, Cersei wants to apologize. She’s never met her mother, but she knows her father loved her unreservedly, and was never the same after her death.

“We will talk about this later,” Cersei says, standing up and brushing off her skirt, unable to look at him. “With my husband present. Will you still be coming to my solar later? We can speak then.”

“No,” Tywin says stiffly. “Tomorrow. I think we’ve said enough for today.”

Cersei believes so as well. “The feast is in a few hours,” she says, making to leave. “I shall see you then.”

Her anxiety is knotted in her chest, even as Lady Lynesse helps her into her gown, brushes her hair and coos at her jewels. She should not have lost her temper, Cersei admits. She’s been rash. Bran was her special boy, though, moreso than he’d been Ned’s, it seemed, because Cersei spent all her free time with Myrcella and Bran when they were born, doted on them. Ned had been busy, off at war for the second time, when Cersei had been pregnant with the second pair of twins, and she, along with Joanna and Arya, played with them and soothed them and slept alongside them. The birth had been short and easy, and Bran was _such_ a sweet boy…

The thought of sweet, affectionate Bran being raised in Casterly Rock along the vipers of her father’s keep has kept her awake nights, and she is too scared to let him go and be alone like she’d felt all those years.

“Done, my Lady,” Lynesse tells her, straightening the last pearl on Cersei’s neck. “You will be the most beautiful woman in the room,” she declares.

Cersei hopes so. It’s good to see that slack-jawed expression on Ned’s face when she wears his colors.

The grey and white dress is nearly simple in its cut, but it brings out Cersei’s shape, full and comely. While she had looked a Lannister in the yard this morning, it would do well to remind dutiful Catelyn Baratheon that she was a Stark, too. And, Cersei believes, her father needs a reminder as well.

“Hair up or down?” Lady Lynesse asks. “I’ve seen so many beautiful Southron styles today, My Lady. I’m sure I could do them justice on you.”

“Down,” Cersei decides, and stands. “My lord husband likes it better down.” Lynesse smothers her disappointment.

When Ned comes to escort Cersei, she takes pleasure in his face when he sees her in the firelight. “You are as beautiful as the day we met,” he whispers in her ear on the passage down, his voice low. “More beautiful, even.” He smiles at her, a content look that warms Cersei’s heart just as it did the first time she saw it as a girl.

“You say such sweet things,” she reprimands him. “You’ll spoil me.”

Ned squeezes her hand before handing her off to Robert, who will escort her into the Great Hall today. The king already smells of Dornish Red, and Cersei takes his arm daintily. Behind her, Ned offers his arm to Queen Catelyn, who hesitates before she sets hers upon his elbow.

Jon Snow is at the lower tables with Theon, who looks suitably scowly for his demoted seat. Cersei keeps her head high and her eyes straight ahead when she walks past, so her annoyance does not show. Jory usually has more sense than this, seating together two boys that hate one another. She only prays that Theon will stick to his lads and Jory will talk with Jon all night, keeping them both out of trouble. As Cersei is seated at the high table, she sees Ned walking Catelyn down the hall. Robb escorts in seven-year-old Jocelyn, who is blushing, and Joanna is escorted by Steffon. Arya has Orys on her arm, practically dragging him to keep up, while Bran and Myrcella enter last, holding their little hands together.

“Benjen sent a raven,” Ned tells her, as he sits. Robert is already on his feet, proposing a toast. “I’ve just received word about it. He’ll be here by the end of the sennight.”

Cersei takes a slow sip of wine discreetly. She nods. Benjen is always a welcome guest in her household.

“My father and I had a row,” she tells him, and feels his hand on hers atop the table. She can’t look at him yet. “About Bran.”

Ned sighs, a sound that Cersei wants to repeat, but cannot. “I knew this would happen,” he mutters. “When your father announced his intentions to visit. He has not visited since Bran’s birth.”

“Well,” Cersei says, and sets down her goblet. “I’d been hoping that he came to see his family. I suppose I should have known better.”

Ned lifts her hand and kisses it. She draws her strength from the gesture. When Cersei looks over to him, she sees Queen Catelyn staring at her quizzically over Ned’s shoulder.

 

* * *

 

Cersei makes it a point to dance at least once with her husband at every feast, dragging him out of his chair, away from whatever lord he’s speaking to. Cersei loves to dance, and Ned loves to dance with her, so when the King leads out his Queen, Cersei turns to Ned expectantly.

Once that dance is done, she allows the King a turn around the floor, but only the one. Then, Ser Jorah Mormont asks for a dance, and she gives it, to keep Lady Lynesse happy. Lady Maege dances with her husband, no doubt talking about wheat and grain trade the whole time. After two more turns on the dance floor, Cersei goes back to sit with the Queen, as is proper.

The King stays out on the floor for the rest of the night, only climbing to the high table for more wine. When he has danced with the ladies, he calls the serving girls onto the floor, twirls them all around, laughing the whole while.

King Robert still has some charm, it appears. His queen, however, is silent and white faced.

Cersei takes a moment to call the cook out, to commend his cooking. She also commands him to keep his serving girls in hand, and remind them that their duty this night is to present the meal to the King and their guests, not offer up themselves as well.

The cook’s face is grim, but he nods. “My Lady, I do not believe I can do anything about Megga, short of dragging her away,” he says, about the girl who has made her way onto the king’s lap. “I will tell the rest, though.”

“You did not need to do that,” Catelyn tells her, when she dismisses the cook. Cersei eyes her cooly. She’d been aware that the queen was listening.

“I did not,” Cersei agrees, and leaves it at that. It seems the queen’s exterior warms after that, and she speaks to Cersei a bit more freely.

Half way through the meal, Cersei sees her father speaking to Jon Snow.

It is her father’s practice to never leave the high table during a feast. Cersei remembers feasts in Casterly Rock where her father sat on the dais, above everyone, taking everything in with watchful eyes. If men wanted to speak to Tywin Lannister, they came to him, not the other way around. Even at Cersei’s own wedding, Tywin had sat at the head of the table and not moved until the call for the bedding, when he retired.

To see him at the lower tables, with Jon Snow of all people, makes Cersei uneasy. She is on her feet before she knows, making her way to him.

“Father!” she calls, louder than necessary. “Would you spare your only child a dance?”

Lord Tywin looks at Cersei, then back to the boy. “Ah, Cersei. Your ward was being disrespectful, I believe.”

Theon is clearly drunk, and he is slumped against his seat, eyes half-closed.

“Snow?” Cersei prompts.

“Oh!” Jon looks up, face flushing. “Not to me, Lady Stark. Theon said something rude to your lord father.” She stares at him until he explains reluctantly, “He called the Lannister Navy a shameful disgrace, my Lady, and that the Ironborn fleet has smashed it before and will again.”

Cersei turns to Theon’s companion, a boy of thirteen. “Take Theon up to his chambers. He can sleep off his drunken stupor there.” She ignores Jon, and places a hand on her father’s arm. “Father, a dance?”

_He can’t refuse me,_ she thinks. _Not so publicly, not to humiliate me._

Her father’s eyes remain on Jon Snow a moment longer before they turn to her. “This is a Northern tune,” he says finally. “You shall have to lead me through the steps.”

 

* * *

 

The Queen thanks Cersei for the feast while she and her ladies usher the royal children up to their suite. “It was quite…animated,” Queen Catelyn says, choosing an appropriate word at last. “Your husband’s men are very hearty.”

“Northmen usually are,” Cersei comments dryly. “A hearty, rowdy bunch.” Catelyn gives a delicate laugh. _Your husband fit right in,_ Cersei thinks, but does not say. “Bran and Myrcella got along quite well with your Orys, I think,” Cersei says instead. “I would like for them to play in the godswood tomorrow, if it please Your Grace. I can take you as well, to show you the weirwood tree.”

Cersei can see the queen deliberating. “I shall send my ladies to you when we are ready,” Catelyn says finally. “After noonday meal, perhaps? The children shall be tired tomorrow morning.”

“As you wish, Your Grace,” Cersei murmurs, bowing her head. When the queen is inside the suite, Cersei dismisses Lysnesse, thanks Lady Maege for the company, and retires to her solar.

Ned is already there, staring out the open window. The cold night air wafts through and Cersei shivers. “Close it, please,” she requests. She hears the click of the latch as she turns to the fire. Ned comes behind her and pushes the hair off her neck so he can kiss it.

“The first night is over, at least,” he says, sounding relieved. He presses another kiss into Cersei’s skin, and a pleasant shiver courses through her.

“I hope this was the hardest part,” Cersei replies. Ned’s hums against her neck. His hands are in her hair, tugging gently. Cersei tilts her head to allow him greater access.

“You were perfect,” he tells her. “I believe you even got the Queen to smile.”

“She’s a sad woman,” Cersei murmurs, feeling his hands at her laces. “I wonder why.”

Ned’s fingers still. “She lost a babe,” he confides. “Robert told me.”

_That’s only part of the reason,_ Cersei thinks. She urges him to continue. _Your dear friend Robert may be the other part._ When the dress puddles around her feet, Cersei gives a sigh of relief, and leans back into her husband. That corset had been far too tight.

His hands rest on her hips, rubbing soft circles over her shift. “I love you,” her husband says, suddenly. As if it’s important for her to know.

There is something urgent in his voice. Cersei steps around her dress, and turns to face him. “I love you as well, my love. What is it?”

Ned’s grey eyes are dark when they meet hers. “Robert would like to join our houses. Joanna and Steffon.”

“Joanna is a bit older than Steffon,” Cersei muses, touching her fingertips to his cheek. “I thought he would suggest Arya for Steffon, since they are closer in age. It may be better, though. Arya is not as…polished as Joanna. Arya is of the North, and we can arrange a match for her in the North.”

Ned sighs. “I thought so as well,” he confesses. “I’d like Joanna to be a bit older, though, before I sign a betrothal agreement.”

Cersei frowns. “I see. Steffon will be king, though. And Joanna will be a lovely queen.”

Ned nudges his nose against hers. “Robert thinks they should be married when Steffon turns five and ten.”

“Joanna will be seven and ten,” Cersei says. “That’s a good age.”

“So we are agreed, then?” Ned asks. “I shall accept the betrothal?”

Cersei kisses her husband. His lips linger on hers, and she pulls back a moment. “You shall,” she says. “But only if we can draw up the agreement on a dowry together.”

Ned chuckles, and since they stand chest to chest, Cersei feels it. “Was that ever a question?” Ned wonders. “I would not dream of doing this without you, my love.”

“Good,” Cersei says, smiling when she kisses him. Despite his Northern blood, her husband has always been warm to her touch.

She is still warm when her shift falls away under his hands, and remains so until morning.

 

* * *

 

Cersei is pleasantly sore the next morning, but her good mood only lasts till she spies Theon in the practice yard, half asleep and yawning widely at Ser Rodrick. Jon and Robb are also barely awake, but it is Theon Cersei watches, Theon who looks miserable.

_He is homesick,_ she reminds herself. When she’d first come North, she’d been homesick and snappish as well, but never so hostile. Theon only ever took warmly to Robb here, despite Cersei’s efforts to provide him with suitable companionship for a boy his age.

Bran presses his hand into Cersei’s, and she smiles down at him. His eyes are green, like hers, even though the rest of him is pure Stark. “Mama,” he says, his little voice high and clear. “Myrcella and I made you a crown.” He holds it up in his other hand, a crown of misshapen wildflowers. “Orys and Jocelyn told us that in the south, knights give ladies crowns of flowers,” he explains. “So Cella and I made you one.”

“Are you my knight, sweetling?” Cersei asks, smiling. She kneels, holding her skirts away from the ground, so that he can set the crown upon her head.

“Yes, Mama,” Bran says, and his big green eyes look excitedly into hers. “I’m going to be the greatest knight there ever was! I can be on the Kingsguard, like Ser Barristan the Bold, or the Sword of the Morning.”

_Your father killed the Sword of the Morning, sweetling._ Cersei cannot tell him that yet, though. Nor shall she tell him that his fate is not the Kingsguard, but Casterly Rock and the Westerlands.

She smooths back his hair. “How exciting, my love,” she croons. “Have you and Myrcella been playing Come into my Castle?”

Bran nods eagerly. “We want to play Knights and Dragons with Prince Orys later,” he tells her animatedly. “When we go to the godswood.”

Cersei can spot the queen and her children making their way to the practice yard. Prince Steffon detatches from her, and makes his way to the boys practicing, but Queen Catelyn continues to her. “Go get Cella over here,” Cersei tells her son. “You can play with Prince Orys now.”

He hops off, and Cersei takes off the flower crown, a bit reluctantly. She stows it in one of the pockets on the side of her dress. Tonight, she shall press it into the pages of a book, to dry them so she may keep the crown forever, but she cannot very well face a queen with a crown of her own atop her head.

A mist hangs over the godswood when they arrive, transforming the trees and bushes into something that inspires the feeling of stillness, and eyes watching from the branches. Prince Orys and Princess Jocelyn fall silent at the gaping face of the weirwood tree, and they flinch away from the bloody sap. The queen remains silent, but looks uneasy as her children start to play.

“We visited a weirwood during our stay at Moat Cailin,” the queen tells Cersei, “but it was not so…imposing as this one.”

“This is not the scariest I’ve seen, Your Grace. Years ago I visited the Dreadfort, their godwood. That one was truly a sight to shrink away from.”

Catelyn shudders delicately, “I’ve never felt comfortable in a godswood,” she confesses. “Save the one at Riverrun, which was more of a garden. Something about this place feels like it does not want me here.”

Cersei knows what she means. “Perhaps it is admonishing you,” Cersei teases. “For not being Northern.”

That was the wrong thing to say, Cersei sees immediately, and curses herself. The queen’s face closes off.

“I was supposed to be, you know,” Catelyn says, voice tight. “I was to marry Brandon Stark and be lady of Winterfell.”

She takes care, Cersei notes, to not sound wistful. But she can see it in the queen’s eyes.

“I know,” Cersei says. “I was sorry when he died, my lady. I heard you were to marry a quite soon after Lady Lyanna’s abduction. I _am_ sorry.”

The queen looks angry for a moment, and Cersei braces herself. She’s been playing word games since she was a child, and she knows that was not the response the queen had wanted.

_Does she want me to apologize for marrying Ned?_ Cersei wonders. _He was never hers, not like Brandon was. And she married a king. There is no law that says Ned should have married her, only tradition. She cannot expect to blame me for that._

The queen’s eyes fix on the Heart Tree, then slide past to the children, who have abandoned their fear and now shriek in laughter.

“Yes,” she says. “We were to marry quite soon. But then Lady Lyanna was taken, and Brandon went down to King’s Landing to confront the Prince. My father called him a noble fool, I recall. Did you know that he died in the throne room?”

Cersei’s heart sinks. “Yes, Your Grace. Grand Maester Pycell told my father the manner of his death.”

Catelyn Baratheon scoffs, and turns to look Cersei. “I walk through that room every day, Lady Stark. Sometimes, I dream about it. I can see it all in my mind, you know. And I have to live in that castle and sit by that throne every day. I should have been Lady of Winterfell, but instead I am the Queen of Nightmares and Rats.”

Cersei says nothing. She does not take responsibility for making Catelyn Tully queen. She pities her, perhaps, this unhappy woman before her. But she refuses to feel sorry for marrying the man she loves.

The Queen turns away from her, and lets the silence fill the gap between them.

 

* * *

 

Cersei’s aunt Genna comes to Cersei’s solar. “Your father is quite cross with you, you know,” her aunt tells her.

“Well, I am cross with him as well,” Cersei mutters. “But I have bigger things to worry about right now, dear auntie. The queen is hostile, the king has probably impregnated a serving wench named Megga, and I have to secure moon tea for the foolish girl.”

Genna scoffs, “Oh, that is nothing new. Our dear King Robert has bastards all over the Seven Kingdoms but the North. I think it’s about time he got started on amending that, don’t you?”

“How is your husband?” Cersei wonders. “And your son?”

“Cleos is a knight now,” Genna says. “The foolish boy can’t fight, but one of his damn Frey cousins knighted him. And his father is at the Twins, no doubt, shaking in fear of my brother.”

Cersei laughs. “Well, dearest aunt,” she begins. “I am not shaking in fear of my father. I wonder who is more of a man, your husband or I?”

“You, no doubt,” Genna says smilingly. Her expression sobers. “But perhaps you did not learn your lessons yet, Cersei. You should be afraid of your father.”

 

* * *

 

“Your father approached me about Bran,” Ned tells Cersei, rubbing his eyes. The light in the chamber is dim, so she takes the ledger away from him.

“What did he say?” she asks.

“He wants Bran to return with him to the Westerlands. Now, not in eight years as you have suggested.”

Cersei sinks gracelessly into a chair besides Ned. The slippers she wears pinch her toes, so she nudges them off, and props her feet on her husband’s leg.

“We can’t let him. I’m willing to let Bran go, I’ve told him so. Just not yet.”

Ned rubs Cersei’s ankle. She feels all the calluses in his fingers.

“I know. I told him that as well.”

“When I protested, he told me that I could always have more children,” Cersei complains. “As if childbirth is something easy, that everyone can do.”

“Well,” Ned says, voice quiet. “Perhaps he could give it a try.”

Cersei laughs. “Perhaps. Although, I must admit the _making_ of a child is much more enjoyable than the birthing of one.” Cersei cannot imagine her father enjoying anything but power.

“Oh,” Ned says, and skims his hand a bit higher on her leg, just barely tracing her calf. “I agree entirely.”

 

* * *

 

“Mother,” Robb says, and Joanna sits beside him. Cersei raises a brow at her eldest children. “Is it true Joanna will be marrying Prince Steffon?”

Cersei sighs, and sets aside her embroidery. Arya has, at least, inherited Cersei’s hate of embroidery. Cersei is glad for the distraction. “Yes, my dears, all though it is not final until your father signs the betrothal agreement before a septon.”

Joanna wrinkles her nose. Her freckled face looks displeased. “But we don’t worship the Seven.”

“It is a formality, sweetling. Nothing more.”

Joanna shrugs, then looks troubled. “Will Prince Steffon want me to worship the Seven?”

“He can’t _make_ you, Joanna,” Robb exclaims. “Don’t be silly.”

Joanna glares at her twin. “I didn’t ask you, Robb,” she says in a tone that sounds eerily like her mother’s. Robb shrinks back, abashed.

“He may want you to,” Cersei answers. “But you have no obligation to worship the Seven. And Prince Steffon is eight, Joanna. He does not require anything of you yet. When he goes back to King’s Landing, you shall exchange letters with him so the two of you may learn things of one another, and I think you’re clever enough to let him know what he’ll be getting when you two do finally marry. He’s young enough that he can still learn, and that you may still mold him into the husband you want him to be.”

Robb frowns at that. “Are you molding me?” he asks.

“I’m not going to marry you, Robb,” Cersei explains. “But I hope I’ve molded you to be a good husband and a great Lord of Winterfell.”

With that, the twins seem to lose interest in the conversation, and Cersei dismisses them from her solar. The king and queen shall be leaving soon, so she has a few moments to herself while they pack.

That is, until her father steps into the room.

“Cersei,” he greets. She rises. “Sit, sit,” her father says. “I’ve come to talk to you about something I’ve seen during my stay.”

Cersei sits warily. Her father shoots a glance at her maids, so Cersei dismisses them.

“Your children have grown well, Cersei,” he tells her. “Polite, if a bit rowdy.”

“Children are rowdy, father.”

Tywin raises his brows. “You never were.”

Cersei regards him. Perhaps he’s come to make peace. His voice is pleasant enough. “I kept my rebellions quiet,” she says. “After all, you did not know I was allowing Ned to write me until he proposed.”

“That is true,” Tywin allows. “Still, a well-behaved group of children. You even found time to teach the bastard.”

_This again_? Cersei cannot help the feeling of unease that comes over her.

“The boy resembles his father remarkably,” Tywin muses, his voice carefully empty.

Cersei knows that tone. After all these years, it still sends a shiver of fear into her heart. _He’s playing games, his little word games._

“So I’ve been told,” she says, almost dismissively. “So do Robb, and Bran and Arya. They all resemble Ned. In temperament as well.”

“Lord Eddard?” Tywin repeats. “No, that is not who I meant.”

Cersei looks at him, and schools her expression into one of amusement, “Ned is Jon’s father,” she tells Tywin. “Who, pray tell, does Jon resemble if not him?”

“Rhaegar Targaryen,” Cersei’s father says, his eyes unwavering.

Cersei has been lying to her father since she was a child, but when she opens her mouth, she finds that no words can escape.

Instead, she laughs.

The laugh is weak, and dies a sad death in the stillness of the chamber. “Rhaegar Targaryen?” She repeats.

Her father does not move.

“Father,” Cersei says, trying to collect herself. Her hands twitch, so she relaxes them. “Jon Snow is a Stark get through and through.”

“Lyanna Stark,” her father shoots back, eyes unwavering. Cersei _cannot_ look away. She cannot, else she gives it all away, “and Rhaegar Targaryen.”

“That is absurd, Father.”

“It’s not,” he says, quietly. He looks far too comfortable in his chair. “I was there when Ned Stark told me he was going to rescue his sister from Dorne. He came back with a son, although it was not his, to be sure. And you are a proud woman, Cersei. You would never have allowed your husband’s bastard to be raised among your own children.”

“It is no fault of the bastards that—”

“—his father was a kidnapping madman? That I know, Cersei. But I’m not sure King Robert knows the difference.”

Cersei’s face goes white. “Robert would kill the boy,” she says feverishly, and she feels like she is speaking from far away. “If you told him such a thing… Father, your theories are impressive, no doubt, but they are not true. Jon Snow is Ned Stark’s bastard son. He is my stepson. He is like a child to me.”

Her father’s face remains impassive.

“Gods damn you!” Cersei rises to her feet and turns her back to him. “Is it not enough that your granddaughter will sit the Iron Throne, just as you’ve always wanted? What more do you want from me?”

“Bran.”

Tight-lipped with rage, Cersei rounds on him. “And you would threaten a boy to get your heir? I’ve told you that you shall have Bran when he is older.”

“That will be too late,” her father says, voice calm. It infuriates Cersei, how calm he is. “He will be a Northman ruling the West. It will not do. He is to be a Lannister, Cersei. Not a Stark. You know I am right.”

“ _I_ am a Lannister, Father. _I_ am a lion of the Rock. Do you not trust your daughter to raise Bran as you raised me?”

“No,” her father says simply. “You coddle him—”

“—I _love_ him!” Cersei shouts at him. “He is my son, my special boy, and I love him! I love all my children, and you cannot _steal_ him away from me without the guarantee that you will love him the way I do, a guarantee I know you cannot give! He is a piece to you. We are all pieces in your game of thrones, Father, and I am tired of it!”

Tywin’s eyes are burning when he stands, and Cersei finds herself clenching her jaw. “I _love_ you, Cersei,” he says, his voice raw. “I raised you and gave you _everything_ , do you understand? I taught you all I know, I would have made you _queen_ if you asked. But you asked not to become queen, you asked me to side with the rebellion and allow you to marry into the North for love, and I allowed it, with the condition that your second born son would be my heir. Lannisters pay their debts, Cersei. All I see is you running from yours.”

“ _I am not running_ ,” Cersei snarles, and furiously wipes away her tears. “I cannot tell you how _alone_ I was in Casterly Rock, Father. I was always alone. There was a hole in my heart that no one could fill. I do not want that for Bran.”

Her father reaches for her, and Cersei lets him. It is the first time he’s kissed her in years, and he presses his lips to her brow awkwardly, as if he’s forgotten how to use them.

“He will have everything I can give him, Cersei. You will be able to visit, and bring your other children. You know that this is necessary. But you are thinking like a mother, not a lord who one day must prove to his bannermen that he is one of them, and not an outsider. If Bran comes with me now, he will not have to prove himself later.”

Cersei pushes him away. “You told Ser Gregor to murder Queen Elia’s children,” she whispers, the words feather-light in the air. “You would allow Robert to murder Jon Snow, for your heir a few years early.”

She looks him in the eyes, which usually tell Cersei tales that words do not. They give nothing away. Her father is a better liar than she.

“I would be killed as well,” she informs him, still whispering. Her voice hangs in the air between them, precious and explosive. “I harbored Rhaegar’s son. I raised the true king of Westeros, right underneath King Robert’s nose.”

“He may still find out,” Tywin says. “Marry Jon Snow to your uncle Gerion’s baseborn daughter Joy Hill. That will allay suspicions that anyone has. No one would marry the rightful king of Westeros to a bastard girl.” He meets Cersei’s eyes. “Let me bring one of your daughters with me to Casterly Rock, if you are so afraid that your son will be lonely.”

_He is speaking as if it is already done,_ Cersei thinks.

And it is, isn’t it? He’s stealing her child from her. And there is naught she can do.

Lannisters pay their debts, and Cersei is nothing if not her father’s daughter.

“Leave me,” she says, her voice rough. “Leave me now, or I will have you dragged out.”

He leaves. Cersei wants to fall to the ground, weeping. Instead she straightens her back, sits in her chair, and tells the guard outside her door to call for her husband.

 

* * *

 

Cersei keeps Bran and Joanna in her bed for the whole night before they are to leave. She does not let her children see her cry, but she spends the time telling Joanna stories of her time in the Rock as a child. They will be back in three years’ time, to visit. Cersei cannot help but fear that Bran will not remember her by that time.

“I shall have a portrait commissioned,” she tells Bran. He nods sleepily.

“So I can remember what you look like?” he asks, eyes drifting shut.

“Yes, sweetling,” Cersei says, voice choked. “And you must learn your letters quickly, so that we may write to one another.”

Bran drifts off not long after that. Cersei spends the rest of the night talking with Joanna.

“I will behave, Mother,” Joanna reassures her, voice low. “It shall be an adventure.”

“Yes,” Cersei says, and kisses her daughter swiftly in the dark. “But the most important thing is to _learn_ , Joanna. I learned everything I know from my Father. You will be queen one day. You must take _everything_ he says and keep it here.” She taps her daughter’s temple. Joanna laughs quietly.

Her children. They still see the excitement in new things.

“I will write you every week,” Joanna says. “And I shall miss Robb dreadfully. Can he not come with me for a bit?”

“Robb will be Lord of Winterfell,” Cersei tells Joanna. “His place is in the North. But we shall visit, all of us.”

“Perhaps Jon, then?” Joanna asks. “He’s not going to be lord of anything. Theon told us so. Perhaps he can come with me?”

“No,” Cersei says swiftly. She will not allow her father near Jon Snow. “It would insult my father to have a bastard in his home. You shall not be alone, though. My old friend Jeyne has a daughter your age, and a son a bit older than Bran. They will be waiting for you when you arrive, to be your very best friends.”

“But _Robb_ is my very best friend,” Joanna mutters drowsily, just as she falls asleep.

When Ned comes to Cersei that night, she is clutching her children tightly, tears on her cheeks. He kisses Joanna and Bran both, and opens the door. Arya, Myrcella and Robb stand, swaying in the doorway.

“May we come in?” Robb asks, his voice quiet. Cersei nods, and they all pile into the bed.

 

* * *

 

“You’ve done a wonderful job,” Queen Catelyn tells Cersei in the bustling yard. Cersei grips Bran’s hand, and stares at the queen. Cateyn looks around approvingly. “With Winterfell, with your daughter Joanna. She will make a fine queen, one day.”

“Yes,” Cersei agrees. “She will. You are kind to say so.” Cersei has taken extra care with her appearance today. Her hair is gleaming in the sun, and she is dressed in white and gold. She wants her children to remember her well. She is no longer a weepy mess, and her green eyes narrow as they watch the proceedings.

The queen smiles at her son. “Orys, Bran shall be coming on the first leg of the journey with us. Will you like that?”

Orys grins toothily and nods. The queen turns back to Cersei.

“Thank you for the hospitality of the North,” she says coolly. “It’s nice to see it all, finally. You were a most gracious host.”

_It’s mine_ , Cersei thinks. _Go back to that cold throne of yours, and your loveless capital. This place is for me and mine._

“Thank you, Your Grace. I hope we see each other again soon.”

With that, the queen nods, and turns to go. Cersei ignores the anger in her gut, and embraces Bran.

“I love you,” she tells her child, words she has not heard from her own father until just days ago. “And we shall see one another before you know it, my sweet boy.”

Bran throws his arms around her, “I love you too, Mama.”

Cersei does not cry when Bran and Joanna are loaded into the Queen’s wheelhouse. Nor does she shed a tear when the party finally rides out, the noise grating against her ears until it recedes. Cersei allows the wind to blow through her locks, fanning them out against her face. Once, she sees a golden head peek out of the window of the wheelhouse, and look back. She does not cry.

Instead, she takes her husband’s hand, and holds it tight. She has not bled this moon. She suspects she will not bleed for many moons to come.

Cersei has no tears to shed.

It is her father’s wish for her children to take up the game of thrones. Cersei knows that in the game of thrones, you win or you die. She intends to make sure her children win.

* * *

 

**Author's Note:**

> Soooo I hope you all enjoyed! I liked writing this, as I usually do in this AU. Please leave comments and/or suggestions of what you'd possibly like to see next in this AU. Also, if you have a chance, please read my Visenya series, since I really do want more readers for that and I actually had more fun writing it than any other story I've ever written, and it is definitely the most rewarding.
> 
> Or, you know, ignore my shameless self-promotion and comment!


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